Christmas Eve Delivery
Christmas Eve Delivery
Connie Cox
Since returning from the army Dr Jordan Hart has isolated himself on his ranch-based medical practice, preferring to be left alone with his battleground ghosts. Then Nurse Deseré Novak comes to his sleepy Texan town – pregnant and alone – weeks before Christmas.Reluctantly, Jordan discovers she raises all his protective instincts, and suddenly he’s confronted with a different kind of torment – a beautiful brunette with a baby on board!
Praise forConnie Cox:
‘Return of the Rebel Surgeon is an emotionally packed
reunion story … I would definitely recommend
reading [it].’
—Harlequin Junkie on RETURN OF THE REBEL SURGEON
Deseré nodded, acknowledging without replying except in the hope and gratitude her eyes reflected, making him feel like some kind of superhero.
He held the door open for her, giving it a good jerk behind him to make sure it had locked when it closed. She was a couple of paces in front of him, and as Jordan followed Deseré out to his truck he tried to look anywhere but at her sassy bottom.
But he failed.
Don’t think about her. Don’t think about that kiss. Don’t think about wanting to do it again. Don’t think.
Yeah, but not thinking would not be a good thing. That would mean he’d let his body take over, and frankly that would be a mistake.
Because he wanted her. And she wanted him. But there were too many reasons why that would be a bad thing—starting with the fact Deseré worked for him, ending with the fact he was not in the right place in his head for a relationship, and with a multitude of other reasons in between.
Not thinking, he reached for her elbow to help her in. A thrill went through him so strongly it made him shake in his boots.
Dear Reader,
Best wishes for a great Christmas holiday season!
Do you ever wish for your very own cowboy? Nurse Practitioner Deseré Novak left New Orleans for East Texas wishing for a job, not the jingle of spurs. Dr Jordan Hart, in his jeans and boots and hat, could give her both if she was only brave enough to open her healing heart as well as her healing hands.
But she has her hands full, carrying the in vitro child within her to full term and avoiding the man who would take that child from her, without adding the further complication of a strong, silent cowboy into her life. Especially a cowboy who refuses to open up to her about the guilt he has carried for too many years—the guilt that keeps him from living and loving to the fullest.
Jordan wants what is best for his patients. That’s why he hires Deseré Novak—so she can give the people of Piney Woods what he can’t: compassion and care. While he can competently treat their physical illnesses, he avoids the emotional aspect of their cases. How can he help them when he can’t even help himself?
But Dr Jordan Hart can’t avoid the joy Deseré adds into his days, or the dreams she adds to his nights.
And when he starts to care for her, to love her, he can’t avoid wanting to be a better man, a whole and healed man—both for her and for her unborn child.
All the characters in this novel are fictional, and are not reflective of anyone living or dead.
Connie
CONNIE COX has loved Harlequin Mills & Boon
romances since she was a young teen. To be a Harlequin Mills & Boon
author now is a fantasy come to life. By training, Connie is an electrical engineer. Through her first job, working on nuclear scanners and other medical equipment, she had a unique perspective on the medical world. She is fascinated by the inner strength of medical professionals, who must balance emotional compassion with stoic logic, and is honoured to showcase the passion of these dedicated professionals through her own passion of writing. Married to the boy-next-door, Connie is the proud mother of one terrific daughter and son-in-law and one precocious dachshund.
Connie would love to hear from you. Visit her website at www.ConnieCox.com
Christmas Eve Delivery
Connie Cox
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This one’s for you, Deseré Steenberg!
Here’s to strong men and the brave women who love them!
Table of Contents
Cover (#ue3c3314e-6385-51df-866a-1d2512ab1d8f)
Praise (#u86ef1b07-bbf0-5ea8-83ef-08573e5f0668)
Excerpt (#u7fb63f12-42ae-54fb-af56-7c07c8d90667)
About the Author (#u2d5317c3-65c0-599e-befc-408913858f3b)
Title Page (#uf3db6967-23a3-5c4c-8c96-88d183420241)
Dedication (#u4e3b1f83-f198-5583-9213-74dedb79fddc)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ub94b9500-69ef-5b57-a64a-67d8deb39b32)
DESERÉ WEDGED HER car into a parking place between a dual-axel diesel truck and a huge silver horse trailer as red dust swirled around her. East Texas dust.
So different from New Orleans pavement.
She put her hand over her stomach. New town. New life. “Here’s to us, baby James. To our future.” She hefted the bottle of milk she’d purchased at her last gas and restroom stop, toasted her sister’s unborn baby and chugged.
Reinforced by lukewarm milk, she gathered her purse along with her courage and opened the door.
The sultriness of the heavy, humid air hit her hard. One step behind was the scent of pine trees and the odor of horse manure.
The pine trees had towered over her as she’d travelled down the unpaved road leading to the rodeo arena. In the dusk, those tall skinny evergreens appeared imposing, like sentinels warning her that she wasn’t in the big city anymore.
For the baby’s sake, she wouldn’t let this alien landscape intimidate her.
“Everything will be just fine.” She said it out loud to force conviction.
A gaunt, stooped cowboy with a weathered straw hat shadowing his leathered face stopped on the way to his truck.
She knew he drove a truck even though she didn’t know which one. She knew it had to be a truck because she had the only car in the parking lot.
He put two fingers to the brim of his hat and nodded before asking, “You okay, ma’am?”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
The old man gave her a strong look, half-wary that she might be crazy talking to herself and the other half suspicious of the overdressed stranger in their midst.
She tried to reassure him with the brightest smile she could muster after eight hours of driving with all her worldly goods crammed into her little compact car.
“I’m fine, really.”
He glanced at her stomach as if he knew. How could he? She was only four and a half months and had barely begun to show.
She was being fanciful. A fleeting look of no consequence was all it had been.
Working hard to shrug off her supposition, she blamed it on her sensitivity to the situation. On hormones. On paranoia from lack of sleep.
He couldn’t know her secret.
Because if he did, the man she had driven all these hundreds of miles to find would know, too. And then where would she be?
She couldn’t even think about a near future that bleak.
He had to say yes. There was no other option.
She’d called in the only favor she had and it had been a weak one. A doctor she’d once dated. A relationship that hadn’t worked out. What were the odds of that wildcard making the difference?
The odds were already stacked against her and her chances plummeted if the cowboy she was looking for realized she was pregnant.
In her open-toed sandals, she picked her way across the ruts cut into the dried mud and scarce grass sprigs that made up the entrance in front of the arena. Dusky shadows made the short distance seem treacherous.
Ringed by a tall wooden fence, the arena was hidden from her. Looking up, she could see only the glare of the tall lights and the wash of bodies in the stands. Cowboy hats on everyone’s heads made each person’s features indistinguishable from each other.
How would she ever find him?
With only nineteen dollars and twenty-nine cents in her wallet, she had to find him. She could sleep in her car again, but she needed a few gallons in her gas tank to keep her car rolling and a decent meal to keep the baby healthy.
Her stomach chose that moment to growl. Except for her daily dose of midmorning nausea, her pregnancy kept her continually hungry.
She circled the arena, looking for an opening into this world of rodeo that personified testosterone, muscle and mastery of will.
Carefully, she skirted the hitching posts where horses were tethered with only thin strips of rope or single leather reins. Didn’t these monsters know they could pull away with only a shake of their heads?
How far could they kick? A protective hand over her stomach, she gave them wide berth.
Pulling out her thin wallet, she prepared to pay admission, whatever it cost. She had no other choice.
“Excuse me?” She stopped a young girl in perfect make-up, painted-on jeans, embossed boots, long blonde curls and rhinestones in the band of her white cowgirl hat.
“Yes, ma’am?”
Another “ma’am.” This time it made her feel more old than honored.
Giving the girl the last smile she had in her, Deseré asked, “Where’s the entrance and how much is the entry fee?”
The girl gave a kind, sympathetic glance at her inappropriate tailored slacks, silk blouse and strappy sandals before she waved toward the end of the wooden fence. “All the events are free to watch. Just go right on in. But watch your step, okay?”
Deseré looked down to where the girl pointed. She’d missed a huge pile of horse droppings by scant millimeters.
“Thanks.”
As she minced her way toward the stands, she had to get a bit too close for comfort to the massive horses that were either tied to the backs of the stands or were being ridden in various directions from the barns to the arena.
No one else seemed concerned as the tons of muscle on delicate hoofs pranced by so close.
So this was Friday night in Piney Woods, Texas.
“We’re definitely not in New Orleans anymore,” she whispered to the baby nestled in her womb.
As she approached the full stands, several rows of observers started scooting over, packing themselves in tighter as they made room for her.
One of the cowboys on the end stood. He gave her an appreciative, if curious once-over as he touched the brim of his hat. “Please, ma’am, have my seat. I’ll stand.”
“Thank you.” Instead of sliding onto the hard wooden bench, Deseré took a deep breath. No turning back from here. “I’m looking for Dr. Hart.”
“Jordan will be first one out of the gate as soon as we get started again.” He drew his brows together in concern. “You’re not needing him, are you? Do I need to go and fetch him for you?”
It was more the other way around. She was hoping—counting on—Dr. Hart needing her. If he didn’t, she didn’t know what she would do.
Almost on instinct, her hand moved to cover her abdomen. At the last moment she diverted it to the strap of the purse slung across her body.
“No emergency.”
“After his ride, I’ll tell him you’re waiting for him.” He waved her toward his vacated seat on the bench. “Best seat in the house.”
“Thanks.”
“Rusty.” He touched his hat again. “Folks call me Rusty.”
He left the introduction hanging with his expectant look. What would it hurt to introduce herself?
“Deseré.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Deseré.”
Miss Deseré. She knew, even if she’d been wearing a wedding ring that was bigger than Dallas, Rusty would have called her “Miss” as a sign of respect. Among the gentlemen she knew in New Orleans, it was a sign of respect there, too.
The familiar custom eased the tension across her shoulders by the slightest of muscle twitches.
Before she could return the nicety a loudspeaker boomed, “Up next is Jordan Hart, points leader for this event.”
Distantly, she heard a deep voice call out, “Cowboy up.”
She looked in that direction, to see a calf burst from a narrow chute into the arena. Hot on its heels was a cowboy on a very large red horse.
With only the slightest flick of his wrist, Dr. Jordan Hart unfurled his rope. The stiff loop shot out and fell neatly over the neck of the running calf.
His horse stopped short, jerking the calf to a standstill.
Quicker than she could comprehend, Jordan slid out of his saddle and began taking big strides toward the snared calf as his horse backed away without direction to keep the rope taut, with its end looped around the saddle horn.
He grabbed the calf, tipped it onto its side and wrapped three of its four legs using the short ropes he’d carried in his mouth.
Once done, he threw his hands in the air. Another man looking official with his stopwatch and mounted on a horse that stood as still as a statue called, “Time,” as he nodded to someone in the speaker’s booth next to the complex structure Rusty had called “the gate.”
A smattering of applause broke out from the stands. Deseré couldn’t help but notice that most of the cheering came from the women and girls, all dressed similarly to the first girl Deseré had met.
If those were his type of women, then she definitely didn’t fit his mold.
Not that she needed to be Jordan Hart’s type.
She just needed his money.
As Jordan loosened the cinch on his mare, he saw his cousin and ranch foreman, Rusty, approach him.
“Nice run, cuz.” Rusty gave Jordan’s mare a rub on her neck. She leaned into it, clearly enjoying his touch.
“Thanks.”
“Jordan …” Rusty hesitated. “Are you expecting to meet a woman here tonight?”
He quirked his eyebrow at his cousin’s cautious question. “No, I’m not.”
“Well, there’s one waiting for you on the bleachers.”
She wouldn’t be the first buckle bunny to approach him. Under the brim of his hat, he checked her out.
In her city clothes, she certainly wasn’t dressed for a rodeo pickup. He couldn’t be sure as she was slumped on the bench, arms tightly wrapped around her huge purse, but he thought she might be five feet seven or so to his six one. Tall enough to kiss without getting a crick in his neck.
Where had that thought come from?
And the accompanying spark in his veins?
At first he was jolted by it. But by his second heartbeat he welcomed it. It had been so long since he’d felt even a flicker of interest.
Gently blowing on that internal ember, he continued to examine her.
Her mink-brown hair shimmered in the bright overhead lights as it fell to her shoulder blades. It was the perfect length. A man could tangle his hands in that silky softness as they lay together, but the length wouldn’t get caught underneath her when they tangled arms and legs.
Jordan let that image grow, reveling in the way his nerve endings seemed to be waking up.
Hope. He’d despaired of ever feeling that emotion again.
She moved her purse, revealing the way she filled out her blouse.
No model-skinny skeleton here.
Ample.
Just the way he liked them.
A flame of interest burned through the apathy he’d been living in these last months.
It felt good, and not just in his groin.
Want. Desire. The burning sensation in the pit of his solar plexus was a very good thing.
Need.
Not so good. He didn’t need anyone.
“She said she was looking for Dr. Hart. When I pointed you out, she didn’t seem to recognize you. Do you know her?”
Jordan shook his head. “Nope.”
“Got any suspicions?”
Jordan ignored his cousin’s curiosity, giving a strong stare at Rusty’s bronc-riding vest instead. “You sure you want to do this?”
Not that Jordan didn’t want to climb on a bucking bronc himself. Only, as the older cousin, he felt duty-bound to make a token protest after Rusty’s last unsuccessful ride and consequent fall.
He refrained from rubbing his hand over his face.
He felt so old lately. And so numb.
“It’s what we do, right?” Rusty shifted under Jordan’s gaze. “Get thrown. Get right back on.”
Jordan shook his head. “Until you get smart enough to realize you don’t have to prove anything to anybody.”
Unwanted sympathy showed in Rusty’s eyes. “I guess you’ve had enough adrenaline rush to last a lifetime, huh?”
Jordan tightened his lips, neither confirming nor denying it.
He was supposed to be recovering from too much living on the edge. How could he admit to anyone that without that infusion of fight-or-flight-induced chemical his life was gray and deadly dull, bordering on meaningless?
His mare nudged him, clearly jealous when he should be paying attention to her. She didn’t need words to make herself clear.
Absently, he reached up to scratch behind her ears. “No need to worry, Valkyrie. You’re my best girl.”
Rusty punched Jordan in his shoulder.
Jordan welcomed the pain to bring him back to himself.
“That’s your problem, cuz. You’ve got women driving all the way out from who knows where to find you and you’d rather keep company with your horse.” Rusty gave him a serious stare. “Get thrown. Get back on. That’s what we do.”
“Or wise up and learn I don’t have to prove anything to anybody.” With conviction, Jordan repeated his earlier statement, knowing neither he nor Rusty were talking about anything close to bull riding.
Rusty jostled him. “I’ll say this about that city girl you brought us a few years ago. She tried. She really tried. You must have been doing something right for her to stay so long.”
“What I was doing right was being a doctor. She was really impressed with that.”
He ignored the worried look in Rusty’s eyes and forced a grin to lighten the moment as he answered, “When she found out the only store within a fifty-mile radius was a combination feed store/hardware store/ boot shop with a smattering of jeans, hats and pearl button shirts to choose from, she quickly become disillusioned with small-town living.”
Forcing those smiles was getting harder and harder.
“That was it? The lack of fancy department stores?” Rusty wasn’t the first to try to pry out more information.
But a gentleman didn’t kiss and tell. Jordan might not have a lot left going for him, but he was determined to keep his dignity.
He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “She loved boutiques more than me. I’ve learned to live with it.”
“And you’ve had plenty of offers of companionship from the buckle bunnies to sooth any man’s ego.”
Jordan had to admit he’d taken advantage of enough of those offers that his ego should be well soothed.
But afterglow didn’t last much past sunrise, did it?
He stole a quick glance at the woman in the stands. Should he recognize her?
“Old history.” He leaned into Valkyrie, taking comfort in how the mare supported his weight. “I’ve grown up a bit since then.”
As his shoulder throbbed where Rusty had punched him, he felt much older than his years.
Between the physical exertion he’d been doing to try to exhaust himself enough to sleep and the tossing and turning he’d done once he finally forced himself into bed, his bones hurt to the marrow.
Add that to his clinic schedule that had him working over sixty hours a week and he was starting to feel trapped in a dark tunnel as the light of the freight train bore toward him faster and faster.
What were the odds of finding a nurse practitioner who could take some of his load from him?
Over the loud speaker, the announcer called Rusty to the gate.
Jordan squared his shoulders. “Good luck.”
“I don’t need luck. Just a bull that wants to buck. Skill will take care of the rest.” Rusty gave him a cocky grin then strutted toward the gates.
He watched his younger cousin with envy. What would it be like to feel alive again? To feel the blood rush through his veins? To feel his heart beat fast and his mind flash with lightning-quick thoughts? To feel a connection with another human being?
Although he tried to stop himself, he couldn’t stop from glancing over at the woman staring intensely at him as if she were looking inside his head.
What did she see?
He pulled the brim of his hat lower and turned away, determined to ignore the feeling of being evaluated.
CHAPTER TWO (#ub94b9500-69ef-5b57-a64a-67d8deb39b32)
DESERÉ TOOK HER time studying Dr. Jordan Hart. Under cover of this crowd, there was no way he would notice a single pair of eyes trained on him. That she kept thinking he was glancing in her direction was purely her imagination as she never caught his eye, even though she tried.
He stood at least six feet one or two. His cowboy hat and boots made him look even taller. With his hat pulled low, she couldn’t make out the color of his eyes or hair, but thought they might both be dark brown.
He was rangy with a stringy kind of muscle that would make his movements graceful.
As he shifted his weight, the chaps he wore emphasized his package. Modestly, she tried to look away, but her raging hormones wouldn’t let her.
Something about being pregnant had kicked her libido into high gear. Whether it was because she no longer needed to worry about an accidental pregnancy or a release of hormones gone wild, or something else entirely, she couldn’t tell for sure. She just knew that she was noticing men even more than she had during her intensely boy-crazy teenage years.
And she didn’t want just sex. She wanted to be touched, petted, protected.
How many nights had she gone to sleep lately, pretending that her fantasy lover lay next to her, that he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close, his big hand over her slightly softening belly?
Keeping this baby she carried hadn’t been the original plan. But, then, the plan hadn’t been for her sister to die, either.
Deseré pushed down her grief and straightened her spine. She was a survivor. Always had been. And always would be—especially now with her son to care for.
Her son.
Get a grip, Deseré. That’s what her sister would have told her if she were here. We do what we have to do to survive.
That’s what her sister had told her ten years ago as Deseré, acting as maid of honor, had arranged her sister’s wedding veil so Celeste could walk down the aisle into the arms of the rich and powerful neurosurgeon who would provide for them both.
Deseré had thought that being a surrogate for Celeste would make up for some of the sacrifices her older sister had made for her. And it had, until Celeste had run a red light while talking on the phone and had crashed into an oncoming eighteen-wheeler.
Even though Deseré knew it was too early, she imagined baby James moving deep inside her.
She would do more than survive. She would build a happy, healthy life for her son and for herself.
In the indigo sky, the first star appeared opposite the fading sunset. Feeling foolish, she made a wish. A miracle. Just a little one. Just a chance to prove myself, okay?
A feeling of be careful what you ask for washed through her.
She shook it off. Fanciful and unrealistic things had no place in her practical world.
The reality was that everyone would say the politically correct thing. They would say her pregnancy didn’t matter in her job hunt.
But the truth was no one wanted to hire a woman who would need time off to have a baby, not to mention time out of her workday for the morning sickness that struck like clockwork at ten a.m. each and every morning.
In less than a month her pregnancy would be evident. But by then she’d have had the job long enough to show her competence, long enough to make herself indispensable.
Her stomach lurched as she thought of how badly she needed this job.
With great willpower she stopped herself from staring at the man who could give her a safe, secure future.
Surely, her sister’s husband, the great Dr. Santone, didn’t have influence over every sleepy little town in Texas, did he?
What would a small-town country doctor care that a big-time surgeon who sat on the board of the largest hospital in Louisiana would be heartily upset if his sister-in-law found a job in the medical field?
Gathering her purse and slinging it over her shoulder, she pushed off the bench, remembering at the last moment to watch where she stepped as she walked toward Dr. Jordan Hart.
Feeling self-conscious, she looked up in time to see he was watching her every step of the way.
A challenge? Why?
Under the wide brim of his hat his eyes were too shaded by the darkening night skies to read. But his lips, so full and rich only a moment ago, were now set tight and grim.
“Dr. Hart?” Deseré called out.
“Just Jordan, ma’am.” Automatically, Jordan touched the brim of his hat, not even thinking about it until he saw her eyes follow the movement of his hand.
She held out her hand. “Deseré Novak. Your new nurse practitioner.”
Not a rodeo groupie at all. But she was an assertive little thing, wasn’t she?
Dr. Wong’s recommendation had seemed to contain a lot more between the lines than in black-and-white.
Dr. Wong hadn’t exactly said she’d worked for him. The letter had been carefully worded. What Dr. Wong had said was that Deseré Novak deserved a chance.
So Jordan would give her one. But he’d only promised an interview.
Or did she think Dr. Wong’s recommendations carried that much weight with him? Jordan was a man who made up his own mind about things.
“You’re early for your interview. We didn’t expect you until Monday.”
She gave him a smile. “I thought I’d check out the place first.”
“Makes sense.” He put his hand in hers. “Thanks for coming to Piney Woods. I know we’re a long way from New Orleans.”
Her grip was firm. No-nonsense. Assertive. With just enough give to suggest hidden softness.
Ms. Novak’s eyes flicked in worry before bravado had her lifting her chin. “I’ve already researched your practice. I’m sure it’s perfect for me. You won’t be sorry to hire me.”
If Jordan hadn’t noticed the slight quiver he would have been fooled into thinking she was totally confident that she had the job.
It wasn’t that he’d had any better-qualified applicants. How many experienced nurse practitioners wanted to move out to the edge of nowhere, taking room and board as a significant portion of their pay, when they could be pulling in the big bucks in any major city?
“We’ll talk about it in the morning.” He gestured to the open arena, still and quiet between events. “I’ve got other things going on tonight.”
She stood still waiting for—for what?
Something about her stillness made him notice the dark circles under her eyes.
“The closest hotel is back toward Longview about two hours away. You may want to head in that direction before it gets much later.”
She shook her head, shaking off his suggestion. “I understood room and board would be part of the deal. If you could point me toward this boarding house, maybe I could stay the night?”
“Boarding house.” Jordan’s smile was so tight it made his mouth hurt, way too tight to be reassuring, he was sure. “I guess, in a way, it is.”
His office administrator had drawn up the job description.
It would be just like Nancy to gloss over the details to get what she wanted.
And what she wanted was a local medical facility for the folks of Piney Woods, solving two problems at once. The town and surrounding ranches would have good medical attention.
The loudspeaker blasted over the explanation he was about to give to clear up his office administrator’s oversight.
Like everyone else in the stands, he turned to the gate to see his cousin poised over the back of a snorting and twisting bull.
Bull riding was a young man’s sport. Rusty was getting too old for this.
But, then, his bullheaded cousin would probably realize that in the morning when he was too stiff to roll out of bed.
Jordan had been there, done that, got the belt buckle—and the scars—to prove it.
The woman next to him winced as she saw Rusty drop down onto the wide back of the bull.
Rusty settled in—as well as a man could settle onto the back of an angry bull—and gave a sharp nod.
The gate opened, the bull rushed out, and Jordan silently counted in his head, one second, two seconds, three—
And Rusty was off the bull and on the ground.
The rodeo clowns rushed in to distract the twenty-five-hundred-pound, four-legged kicking fury so Rusty could roll away from the dangerous hoofs.
Jordan squinted through the falling light, looking for that first twitch that said Rusty was going to catch his breath, jump up and walk out of the arena any second now.
“Come on, Rusty, shake it off,” he murmured, as if saying it would send his cousin into action.
Dust hung in the air, as time stood still.
Rusty didn’t move.
But the woman next to Jordan did.
She rushed toward the arena, looking like she intended to climb through the iron-pipe fence separating her from the bull.
Without thought, Jordan reached out and pulled her close to him.
“No.” It came out harsh and uncompromising. It had been meant to. He’d been trained to give orders that were followed without question. He’d had too much practice to break the habit now.
There were a lot of habits he needed to work on breaking—like waking up in a cold sweat every night from his murky, twisted memory dreams. And jumping every time the barn door slammed closed, sounding too much like metal exploding.
And getting an adrenaline rush when he pulled a woman close to him to protect her from a non-existent danger.
Of course, she wasn’t intending to go over the rail into an arena with an enraged bull running loose. Who in their right mind would?
His stomach sank as he had a surge of doubt in his ability to judge a situation. His instincts, which had always served him so well, might be a tad on the twisted side now.
A tad?
Still, he held her tightly pressed against his body as she struggled to get free, something deep inside him telling him to hold on tight and not let go.
Under other circumstances Jordan would have tried to defuse the situation by making a joke at his own expense, along with an apology as he sheepishly laughed off his rash and inappropriate behavior.
But his cousin lay facedown in the dirt, too still for too long, and Jordan had no words, much less a laugh.
“Let me go.” She struggled against him. “Can’t you see he needs help?”
Maybe his instincts weren’t as far off as he’d thought they were.
Jordan gave a quick glance at the clowns as they herded the bull through the gate. One more second to make sure they latched it tight.
Then he let her loose, moved around her to put one boot on the top rung and vaulted over the fence racing toward Rusty with too many dire diagnoses running through his head for him to think straight.
As he knelt by his cousin’s side, Deseré knelt on the other side. Had she gone over the top, too? Or squeezed between the rails? Did it matter? All that mattered was Rusty, lying so still. He was never still. But now …
Jordan felt frozen, inside and out.
Deseré was on her hands and knees, her silk shirt and slacks getting filthy as she tried to assess Rusty’s state of consciousness.
Oh, God. Jordan thought it as a prayer, as cold dread started in the pit of his stomach, making its icy way to his heart. He hadn’t even considered that Rusty might be …
“Unconscious,” she said, her voice clipped.
She put her hand on Rusty’s back, noting its rise and fall.
“Breathing,” she reported.
Jordan nodded, realizing he’d been holding his own breath. Vacantly, he gazed down at his cousin’s body, trying to get his own breathing regulated.
Worn, dusty boots stopped next to Jordan’s knees. Jordan didn’t know and didn’t care who they belonged to.
With creaking knees Plato squatted down and touched Jordan’s elbow. “Emergency Dispatch says the ambulances and paramedic crews are tied up. A truckload of teenagers tried to beat a train across the tracks. They don’t know how long it will be. Do we need a chopper?” His calm voice, steady rheumy eyes and familiar wrinkled face piercing Jordan’s fog.
Jordan tried to make the words make sense. The only thing getting through to him was that Rusty lay still, too still.
He put his hand on Rusty’s back, willing him to take another breath.
“Dr. Hart?” Deseré prompted. “Authorize air transport?”
She nodded her head in the affirmative, giving him an obvious hint as to what his answer should be.
Jordan squeezed out a reply. “Yes.”
How long had it been between the time Rusty had hit the ground and now? It seemed like hours. Or years. But it could have only been minutes. They would have called emergency services immediately, right?
His brain seemed to be thawing—finally. He was applying logic and making assumptions. Now he needed to apply that brain to Rus—to his patient. Thinking of his cousin as his patient would help him put some distance between his panic and his personal pain.
Vacantly, he noted that Deseré was positioning herself flat on her stomach, almost nose to nose with Rusty, something he should have already done.
“I’ll stabilize his head while you check for spinal injuries,” she said, stirring the churned-up dirt of the arena with her breath.
Jordan noted her technique. Thumbs on collarbone, fingers behind shoulders, Rusty’s head firmly supported on her forearms. She definitely knew what she was doing.
She would be stuck like that until the emergency crew arrived with their cervical collar and backboard and trained crew to whisk Rusty to the hospital in Longview, the closest trauma center but still twenty-five minutes away by air.
If the last ten minutes had seemed to be a decade, the next twenty-five would pass like centuries.
The way Deseré lay flat on her belly with her arms extended, holding Rusty tight to keep him immobile, breathing in the thick red dust, each minute must be torture.
Running his hands over Rusty’s head then down, he started to check his cousin’s spine carefully.
No weird angles. But that didn’t mean much after the unnatural contortions Rusty’s body had gone through while airborne.
As he got to mid-back, Rusty stirred.
“Tickles,” he complained, as he tried to lift his face from the dirt.
But Jordan put one hand firmly on his lower hips and the other high on his back to hold him firmly in place.
“Be still,” he growled, not caring about his lack of bedside manner.
“Can’t. Back muscles are cramping.”
“You can and you will. Be still while I finish checking to see if anything’s broken.”
Rusty lay still, as ordered.
Distantly Jordan noticed that his voice sounded fierce and uncompromising. Distantly, he also noticed his hands were following the correct path, searching for injuries.
Distantly. As if he was watching himself from a place not here, not now. As if his heart and soul weren’t even connected to his mind or body. As if this wasn’t his one and only cousin who he’d grown up with, shared camping trips with, shared double dates with and had left behind when he’d enlisted so the army would pay for his education all those years ago.
“Can you feel my hand on yours?” Jordan steeled himself to hear the wrong answer, going into total thinking mode and leaving no room for mind-clouding emotions like fear.
“Yeah, I can.”
Holding his relief at bay, Jordan touched Rusty’s other hand then both his calves above his boots. As Rusty gave an affirmative to each touch, Jordan felt his emotions continue to detach themselves.
Stoicism and survival—at least mental survival—went hand in hand. It was a lesson he’d apparently missed during his time in medical school but had discovered quickly enough for himself while in the field. Combat conditions had made him a fast learner.
In a meek, scared voice, Rusty asked, “Jordan, am I okay?”
“Just checking you out, Rust Bucket.” From that place far remote from him where he’d left his emotions, Jordan knew calling his cousin by his detested nickname would be reassuring. Until the hospital’s helicopter arrived, soothing the patient was all he could do.
The patient. Jordan lumped Rusty in with the thousands of patients he’d treated. He wouldn’t allow himself to connect, wouldn’t allow himself to care. Not here. Not now.
Maybe that other Jordan, the one who seemed so far away from him right now, was caring. But all this Jordan felt was numb. And efficient.
Being efficient was critical.
Maybe later he could feel.
Or maybe later would never come.
But none of that mattered right now.
Finally, after he’d lost count of the breaths he’d begun to count in and out, he heard the helicopter land in the dark clearing where someone had set out flares.
As the paramedic crew got into place with their backboard and cervical collar and their professionalism, he heard himself give them a succinct account of the accident, of Rusty’s state of consciousness, of his initial findings of a possible broken arm and of Rusty’s pain level.
And the pain of Rusty, lying facedown in the dirt, hit him in the heart.
Too late, he remembered that numbness was better.
Still on his knees, he moved back, getting out of a paramedic’s way so he could do his job.
Desperately, he grasped for that numbness before it could slip away.
Instead, he could only kneel there in the dirt as he fought back the moisture that blurred his vision.
How many times had he knelt at the side of young men and women while he’d served his time in Afghanistan as they’d waited to be airlifted to safety? As if any place over there had felt safe.
Now was not the time to think of that.
Not now. Not ever, if he could keep pushing all those memories back.
Any second now he would find the strength, the motivation to stand.
He just needed to shore up his personal dam and everything would be fine.
Deseré stood next to him. When had she relinquished her position to the paramedic? When the paramedic had slipped the collar on and loaded Rusty onto the backboard, of course.
She put her hand on his shoulder, a firm touch followed by a squeeze.
And just like that he didn’t feel so alone, so isolated, so solely responsible.
As if Deseré’s voice had breached the invisible wall around him, he heard her tell the paramedics, “We’ll notify his family.”
That’s when he realized they had been speaking to him, asking him questions about next of kin, giving him information about where they were taking Rusty and how to contact the hospital for updates.
How many times had he spoken with families, giving them the same kind of information? Only he’d had to talk via phone to loved ones who had been continents away, speaking into an unsympathetic piece of plastic in his hand as he’d explained that their soldier had lost hands or eyes or legs.
He’d heard everything from silence to deep soulful keening over those invisible airwaves. Each response had burned itself into his mind.
How long would he fight the memories?
A paramedic knelt next to him, gently jostling him. “We’ve got the patient, Dr. Hart.”
How long had he knelt there, in the way?
Too long, even if it had only been for a few seconds.
He stood and backed away. From somewhere outside himself, he said, “I’ll follow in my truck.”
One of the rodeo clowns, who had been standing behind him and whom he’d been vaguely aware of, though he didn’t seem to belong in this scene with his brightly painted face, baggy clothes and suspenders, said quietly, “Jordan, you’re our medical professional on duty. We’ll have to shut down the event if you leave. I understand about Rusty and all, but there are some big purses and points on the line here.”
Jordan looked over at the woman with the ruined pants and blouse, filthy, too-delicate shoes and streaks of dirt on her cheek.
As if he were standing beside himself, watching, he saw himself lift his hand and wipe at a streak near her mouth with his thumb.
Her eyes deepened into a dark navy as she froze. She didn’t even blink. Just looked at him like a deer in the headlights, too stunned to run away.
Embarrassment dropped him back into himself as he realized what he’d done.
He clenched his fist as he focused on the problem at hand and made his decision. “My nurse practitioner will take over my duties here.”
He looked up, spotting Plato and Sissy, and motioned them over.
“Deseré Novak, meet Plato, my ranch help, and Sissy Hart, my sister and resident veterinarian. Ms. Novak will be taking over in my absence. Plato will introduce you around and show you the medical supplies. Sissy will make sure you have a place to stay tonight.” He paused, looking into each of their faces. “Any questions?”
Plato swiped his hand over his face. “You can take the officer out of the military, but you can’t …” He let the rest of his statement trail off under Jordan’s glare.
Beside him, Deseré was nodding her acceptance as if nothing could ruffle her composure.
Sissy frowned. “Jordan, where—?”
Jordan looked at the lights of the helicopter growing dimmer in the sky. “Call Nancy. This is her mess.”
“We’ve got this, Doctor.” Deseré gave him a calm, if tight smile. “Go do what you need to do.”
As if two massive boulders had fallen from his shoulders, Jordan felt energy course through him, the energy he needed to make it through tonight.
“Thanks.” Emotion had him sounding gruffer than he had intended.
Deseré didn’t seem to mind. “You’re welcome. Now go.”
Ignoring the shocked expressions on Sissy’s and Plato’s faces, Jordan took long, quick strides toward his truck as the helicopter lifted off, strobing bright light into the darkening sky.
As he climbed into his truck, he thought he should have nagging guilt about deserting his post. Instead, he felt comfort, deep down from the place where his instincts were born.
He was no longer alone.
For the first time in a very long time he could feel the tight, invisible bands around his chest loosen enough to let him draw in a deep breath.
The feeling of relief was seductive and he wanted to breathe in more.
But he couldn’t forget—wouldn’t forget—that letting down his guard created a sure-fire path to disappointment and bone-crushing pain.
CHAPTER THREE (#ub94b9500-69ef-5b57-a64a-67d8deb39b32)
WATCHING DR. HART stride away, stretching out his steps, going over the pipe-rail fence in one fluid motion, making the most of those incredibly long, lean legs of his while seeming to be unhurried and in control, left Deseré feeling lost and alone.
But wasn’t that her status quo with men?
Not that Dr. Hart was a—Of course he was a man, but he wasn’t a relationship or a potential relationship, except purely in the professional sense.
And that’s the only sense she needed. Except for her common sense, which she seemed to have misplaced.
My nurse practitioner, Dr. Jordan had said. That meant she was hired, right?
She hadn’t been able to acknowledge her worries and doubt before, not even to herself, but now she could admit to herself that she’d had no other options if this one hadn’t worked out.
Going back the way she had come hadn’t been an option. She’d never been afraid of any man. Cautious, sure. Wary, always. But not out-and-out afraid.
Not until her brother-in-law had sidled up to her at her sister’s funeral and said he’d made arrangements out of state for an off-the-books abortion. They could call it a miscarriage, blaming it on grief.
When she’d refused, she’d seen pure evil in his eyes.
As time had passed, he’d changed his tune, deciding Deseré would take her sister’s place as mother to the child that wasn’t biologically his—and in his bed. He’d had it all figured out in that twisted mind of his, even down to the admiration of his friends when he’d magnanimously taken on the responsibility of his dead wife’s sister.
An icy chill ran down her spine as she remembered his threats, the least of which had been unemployment as he’d tried to wreck her financially so she would have to comply with his plans.
Her brother-in-law had made it very clear she would never work in New Orleans again. And the interviews she’d had at all the major hospitals in Louisiana, Mississippi and most of Texas had emphasized the reach of his power.
Thankfully, he had forgotten this tiny fly speck on the map. Hopefully, he’d never find it.
“Ma’am? I’m Plato.” The old cowboy she’d first seen in the parking lot was at her side. He tipped his hat as he officially introduced himself.
Deseré figured that meant something, some kind of acceptance into this world of boots and spurs.
“Deseré Novak.” She held out her dirty hand then tried to pull it back. “Sorry.”
He took her hand in his. His gnarled knuckles stood out as he gave her a light but firm pressure. “No, ma’am. The way I see it, that’s angel dust coating your hand, not dirt. What you did for Rusty, well …” He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand before he cleared his throat. “I’m sure one of the girls could come up with something for you to wear, if you wanted to change.”
Deseré looked down at her blouse and slacks, covered in red-tinged dust. “It’s a good thing I’m not a dry cleaning-only kind of woman.”
She brushed at her pants leg and her hand became as dirt-coated as her pants. Not that her hands or arms were especially clean after she’d lain on her belly in the dirt, stabilizing Rusty’s head and neck. She probably had red dirt all over her face, too.
Plato gave her a rueful look. “We’ve got iron ore in our soil around here.” He pointed to her pants. “That might not come out.”
Deseré categorized her limited wardrobe. Three pairs of slacks, two blouses, a set of very washed and worn scrubs, one little black dress inherited from her sister’s closet, a pair of jeans with the waistband already too snug, a pair of sweats and three oversize T-shirts she slept in.
“I’ve got it covered.” She turned to head toward her car in the parking lot but all she saw was a solid ring of pipe fencing.
And bleachers full of people watching her every move as she stood under the bright arena lights.
As she moved, the crowd erupted into cheers.
For her? She’d only done what any medical professional would have done.
Her heart beat as if pure energy surged through it instead of blood as she soaked in the approval. It had been so long since she’d felt like anyone was on her side. And now bleachers full of strangers were cheering her on.
It felt good, but overwhelming at the same time.
“This way, ma’am.” Plato put his hand on her elbow, making her feel like rodeo royalty.
Cowgirl princess had always been a fantasy of hers. But her cowboy prince had already left the arena.
Her cowboy prince? It must be the adrenaline swing, the sleepless nights—her stomach growled—and the hunger getting to her.
She didn’t believe in princes on white horses rescuing damsels in distress. She didn’t believe in damsels in distress, either. All she believed in was herself—and some days that was hard enough, without trying to add fairy-tales to the mix.
As they reached a part of the fence that looked as solid as every other part, Plato swung a gate open. It creaked and squealed on its hinges, proving it didn’t get much use.
A woman in her forties, or well-preserved fifties, with big white-blonde hair and huge diamonds at her ears, neck and fingers, met her at the gate. She could have been the mother of any of the blonde cowgirls now crowding the rail.
“I’m Gayle-Anne.” Her smile was orthodontia perfect. “Honey, you can use my trailer to change in. It’s not very big but it’s private.”
Deseré bet it was a lot bigger than the bathroom stall at the discount department store where she’d last changed.
“Thanks. I’ll just get clean clothes from my car.”
If the woman wondered why Deseré had a wardrobe change in her car, she was polite enough not to ask about it.
How long did rodeos last? Hours?
Squeezing into her tight jeans had no appeal, especially if she was going to be stuck on one of those wooden benches for any length of time.
Too tired to give fashion decisions any more thought, she unzipped her bag and grabbed the first thing that came to hand, her sweats and a T-shirt.
The promise of comfort more than made up for her lack of ability to make a better decision.
Digging into the bottom of the bag, she snagged her tennis shoes and exchanged them for her useless sandals. The beat-up shoes had seen better days but, then, so had she.
And so had Jordan Hart.
She might have been the one lying in the dirt, but he was the one walking through hell. She’d seen it in his eyes as he’d gazed down at his cousin. Being a stoic medical professional worked just fine until it was someone close to you who needed your care.
She’d felt so helpless. So useless. The only thing she’d been able to do for her sister had been to promise to take care of her baby, a promise she’d given without reservation, then had had to fight dirty to keep.
She didn’t regret the loss of her home or her career even a fraction as much as she grieved the loss of her sister.
Inside, baby James moved. Everyone would tell her that he was too small to feel, but they would all be wrong. She might not feel his tiny body, but she felt his great soul inside her.
She would keep her promise. She’d given her word.
And right now her word was the only significant thing she had to call her own.
Jordan paced the hallway, waiting, waiting. X-ray. CT scan. Radiologist report.
Rusty.
And the woman he’d left behind. What had he done, hiring her like that? Being impulsive wasn’t like him. Had never been like him.
While it was true that he hadn’t been himself in a while now, had he completely lost his mind?
He stopped pacing. Maybe.
Pain arced through him, starting in his heart and spreading through his veins. The pain of fear.
Not now. Now was not the time to have a panic attack.
Through sheer force of will he made himself start walking again. Walk. Breathe. Don’t think.
Don’t think about the woman waiting at his house, confused. Needing a job. Desperate.
He’d seen it in her eyes.
What had she seen in his?
Deseré’s back screamed in pain from sitting on that hard wooden bench so long and her stomach burned with indigestion that had to rival the pits of hell.
The old cowboy had brought her a hot dog and a Frito pie, both covered in spicy chili, apologizing that this was all the little makeshift food stand had to offer.
She’d eaten them, of course. Even if she hadn’t been starving, turning down free food would have been foolish in her financial situation.
But now, if she could go back in time, she probably would have done the same thing. Heartburn would eventually fade away and she needed the calories and scant nutrients the food provided.
As for going back in time—if she had that ability, she’d certainly take herself back a lot further than a few hours ago.
But how far back? Back before their father had died in Hurricane Katrina’s flooding and Celeste had taken on the responsibility of raising her younger sister? Would that be far enough back?
What part of her history would she be willing to accept as her starting point for life?
Here and now. That’s all she had. That’s all she’d ever had.
But Dr. Hart had given her a future. My nurse practitioner, he’d said, giving her his stamp of approval, his acceptance and his protection all in one hasty pronouncement.
In a small community like this, everything he’d said and done was significant. Even now, she’d bet plenty of folks were dissecting and discussing every nuance.
Even after she was invited to the announcers’ booth, their flimsy metal chairs weren’t an improvement over the hard wooden benches and the staleness of the booth, the odor of burnt coffee mixed with dust and sweat that had built up over the years made her stomach roil.
She swatted at a gnat on her neck, one of millions in league with the mosquitoes that flocked to taste any sliver of exposed skin.
She’d opted to sit outside as the night air brought the heat and humidity down a few degrees. The perspiration soaking her shirt chilled her, making her shiver.
And she was so tired she was having difficulty deciding if she was awake or asleep. She wrapped her arms around herself, surprised to find a blue jean jacket awkwardly draped around her chair and over her shoulders.
That answered it. She’d been asleep—asleep enough that she was startled when the older cowboy, the one she recognized from the parking lot, cleared his throat.
“Ma’am?” Plato’s volume, a touch above a normal speaking voice, firm but still calm and gentle, clued her in that this wasn’t the first time he’d tried to awaken her.
She blinked, trying to bring his leathered face into focus.
Pasting on the best smile she could, even though it felt extremely weak to her, she answered in kind, “Sir?”
Relief showed in his rheumy blue eyes.
Cataracts? Glaucoma? The medical professional started to evaluate diagnoses.
But the exhausted woman overruled them, appreciating the concern and sympathy she found in those bloodshot, yellow-tinged eyes.
“Ready to go home now?” His words made his rough voice sound sweeter than any angel’s song.
Home. Had she finally found home?
“Yes.” Awkwardly, she gathered her purse, trying to hold the jacket around her shoulders while she wiggled functionality into her swollen feet.
He reached out for her.
As an independent woman, she usually waved away the courtesy.
But tonight, his hand on her elbow, guiding her, steadying her, gave her more comfort than she would ever have imagined.
Gratefully and graciously, she accepted the other hand he held out for her as she made the step from the second-row bleacher to the ground.
“You can follow Sissy, or I can drive your car for you and catch a ride back here for my truck.”
Her car. All that she owned was in that car. The stark reality was enough to push away the blanket of sleep that weakened her.
Her brain jump-started and she remembered who Sissy was—Jordan’s sister.
Jordan. When had he become Jordan in her head instead of Dr. Hart?
“I’ll follow Sissy.”
Deseré should have let the old man drive her.
Bleary-eyed, she slammed on her brakes and slowed enough to just miss the bumper of Sissy’s truck as the vet turned off the two-lane road onto a crumbling black-topped street that had deteriorated on the edges so that it was only the width of a car and a half.
Carefully, she put distance between her car and the truck in front of her, on alert for sudden brake lights.
And her caution was validated when Sissy slowed her truck to a crawl and turned into a dirt and gravel drive without bothering to use her blinkers first.
Trees crowded the driveway—and Deseré used the description of driveway very loosely. How far away from the street was the house?
And then they turned a steep curve and there it was, a farmhouse that could have come from a movie set, or her dreams.
Headlights showed a huge, two-storied, white-painted wooden house with gray shingles and a darker gray double door centered under a deep covered wraparound porch. Rocking chairs promised the good life once the grimy cushions were replaced and they were swept clear of cobwebs.
If Deseré had to pick out the perfect picture of a potential home, this would be it.
Which meant she immediately put herself on guard.
Nothing was this easy. This neat. This perfect.
Where was the catch?
Ahead of her, Sissy had her arm stuck out her truck’s window as she wildly gestured to an empty carport that branched off from the drive.
Deseré interpreted that to mean, “Park here.” She could always move it later if she was wrong.
She pulled into the expansive parking place, taking up most of the room by sloppily not squaring her car with the open space. The lack of order felt off, but not as off as her head, which chose that moment to swim in that dizzy, depleted way that meant she’d gone as far as she could today.
Sissy inspected her parking job and clearly found it lacking. With a frown, she shrugged and said, “Jordan will just have to deal with it.”
Deseré knew she should ask for clarification but right now she didn’t really want to know. Knowing might mean exerting more energy than she had to give.
Grabbing her backpack and wriggling her arms through the straps, she breathed deeply to gather her strength for wrestling her rolling suitcase from the back seat.
“Since Jordan has hired you sans interview, Nancy said to bring you here and she would get everything sorted out later.” Sissy swept her hand to indicate the house before her. “Home, sweet home.”
Deseré felt like Sissy was waiting for a reply.
“It’s large,” she answered politely, reserving judgment until she saw the inside of the house.
Sissy nudged her aside and pulled the suitcase out for her, handling it like it was full of popcorn. “I’ll carry this one for you.”
Normally, Deseré would have protested, but she didn’t have it in her. Instead, she muttered a tired “Thanks” and pulled her purse and smaller duffel bag from the front seat of the car.
On autopilot, she followed Sissy up the three steps to the front porch then through the wooden and etched-glass front door.
Sissy paused as she looked down the short wing to the left then up to the second floor. She bit her lower lip and her brow creased as she seemed to be puzzling out a dilemma. “I’m not sure where to put you.”
“Anywhere is fine.” Deseré mustered up a polite smile, wondering how many other tenants shared the boarding house.
Sissy quit deliberating and nodded her head. “Okay, then. This way.” She headed up a staircase lit with just enough wall sconces to cast shadows on the floral patterned carpet runner covering each oak-plank step, dragging Deseré’s large suitcase over each one.
Deseré didn’t need to respond. She would only have been talking to Sissy’s back. Instead, she meekly followed the diminutive woman hefting the large suitcase to the end of the hallway to the left.
Sissy swung open the last door to reveal a bedroom. The room was enormous, bigger than the whole living room and den combination in Deseré’s old apartment.
The sight of that luxurious bed put the rest of the room into the background. A huge queen-size bed held a half-dozen big pillows propped against the headboard and the promise of sweet dreams.
A calming lavender color scheme and trophies and blue ribbons displayed on every inch of shelf space gave the room a mixed attitude of super-girly but highly competitive.
“This was my room before I moved out. I should probably pack up some of this stuff, huh? But the closet’s cleared out so at least you can unpack.” She pointed to a closed door next to a substantial desk. “The bathroom’s through that door.”
Sissy dumped the suitcase outside the bifold louvered doors of a closet then shoved aside a group of trophies on a wide chest of drawers, took Deserés duffel bag from her and plopped it onto the cleared space.
An unexpected expression of doubt crossed Sissy’s eyes. “I hope this will do.”
“It’s great.” Deseré didn’t need to dredge up a fake smile. It came quite naturally as she emphasized her answer. “Really. It’s wonderful.”
“Well, okay, then.” Sissy looked out into the hallway, obviously ready to make her exit. “I’m sure Jordan will straighten out any questions you might have in the morning.”
Absently, Deseré nodded, wishing Sissy would leave. Falling into that lovely bed and stretching out her back was the only thing she wanted to straighten out right now.
“Good night, then.” Sissy didn’t wait for a reply. Her duty done, she started out the bedroom door.
“Good night,” Deseré said to Sissy’s retreating backside, then closed the door as soon as she thought it polite to do so.
Her first inclination was to fall into that bed and sleep for a week. But her mouth had a sour taste that couldn’t be ignored and grit coated her face and hands.
Cleanliness warred with exhaustion. A quick wash-up would be worth the extra time and energy.
Opening the solid door next to the desk, Deseré was sure she’d opened the door to bathroom heaven.
The modernized bathroom was the size of a normal bedroom, with two basins and a huge vanity. The size of each of the basins put the discount store’s basins she’d been spot-bathing in to shame. A wall-to-wall mirror hung over the vanity, reflecting the light from nickel-plated fixtures that caught the atmosphere of farmhouse yet produced enough light for professional make-up application.
An alcove held the toilet separately from the frosted glass doors, which must hide the shower enclosure.
Immediately, every inch of skin on Deseré’s body wanted scrubbing. She couldn’t stop herself from wondering where Jordan would be showering tonight. Would anyone be washing his back?
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Connie Cox
Since returning from the army Dr Jordan Hart has isolated himself on his ranch-based medical practice, preferring to be left alone with his battleground ghosts. Then Nurse Deseré Novak comes to his sleepy Texan town – pregnant and alone – weeks before Christmas.Reluctantly, Jordan discovers she raises all his protective instincts, and suddenly he’s confronted with a different kind of torment – a beautiful brunette with a baby on board!
Praise forConnie Cox:
‘Return of the Rebel Surgeon is an emotionally packed
reunion story … I would definitely recommend
reading [it].’
—Harlequin Junkie on RETURN OF THE REBEL SURGEON
Deseré nodded, acknowledging without replying except in the hope and gratitude her eyes reflected, making him feel like some kind of superhero.
He held the door open for her, giving it a good jerk behind him to make sure it had locked when it closed. She was a couple of paces in front of him, and as Jordan followed Deseré out to his truck he tried to look anywhere but at her sassy bottom.
But he failed.
Don’t think about her. Don’t think about that kiss. Don’t think about wanting to do it again. Don’t think.
Yeah, but not thinking would not be a good thing. That would mean he’d let his body take over, and frankly that would be a mistake.
Because he wanted her. And she wanted him. But there were too many reasons why that would be a bad thing—starting with the fact Deseré worked for him, ending with the fact he was not in the right place in his head for a relationship, and with a multitude of other reasons in between.
Not thinking, he reached for her elbow to help her in. A thrill went through him so strongly it made him shake in his boots.
Dear Reader,
Best wishes for a great Christmas holiday season!
Do you ever wish for your very own cowboy? Nurse Practitioner Deseré Novak left New Orleans for East Texas wishing for a job, not the jingle of spurs. Dr Jordan Hart, in his jeans and boots and hat, could give her both if she was only brave enough to open her healing heart as well as her healing hands.
But she has her hands full, carrying the in vitro child within her to full term and avoiding the man who would take that child from her, without adding the further complication of a strong, silent cowboy into her life. Especially a cowboy who refuses to open up to her about the guilt he has carried for too many years—the guilt that keeps him from living and loving to the fullest.
Jordan wants what is best for his patients. That’s why he hires Deseré Novak—so she can give the people of Piney Woods what he can’t: compassion and care. While he can competently treat their physical illnesses, he avoids the emotional aspect of their cases. How can he help them when he can’t even help himself?
But Dr Jordan Hart can’t avoid the joy Deseré adds into his days, or the dreams she adds to his nights.
And when he starts to care for her, to love her, he can’t avoid wanting to be a better man, a whole and healed man—both for her and for her unborn child.
All the characters in this novel are fictional, and are not reflective of anyone living or dead.
Connie
CONNIE COX has loved Harlequin Mills & Boon
romances since she was a young teen. To be a Harlequin Mills & Boon
author now is a fantasy come to life. By training, Connie is an electrical engineer. Through her first job, working on nuclear scanners and other medical equipment, she had a unique perspective on the medical world. She is fascinated by the inner strength of medical professionals, who must balance emotional compassion with stoic logic, and is honoured to showcase the passion of these dedicated professionals through her own passion of writing. Married to the boy-next-door, Connie is the proud mother of one terrific daughter and son-in-law and one precocious dachshund.
Connie would love to hear from you. Visit her website at www.ConnieCox.com
Christmas Eve Delivery
Connie Cox
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This one’s for you, Deseré Steenberg!
Here’s to strong men and the brave women who love them!
Table of Contents
Cover (#ue3c3314e-6385-51df-866a-1d2512ab1d8f)
Praise (#u86ef1b07-bbf0-5ea8-83ef-08573e5f0668)
Excerpt (#u7fb63f12-42ae-54fb-af56-7c07c8d90667)
About the Author (#u2d5317c3-65c0-599e-befc-408913858f3b)
Title Page (#uf3db6967-23a3-5c4c-8c96-88d183420241)
Dedication (#u4e3b1f83-f198-5583-9213-74dedb79fddc)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ub94b9500-69ef-5b57-a64a-67d8deb39b32)
DESERÉ WEDGED HER car into a parking place between a dual-axel diesel truck and a huge silver horse trailer as red dust swirled around her. East Texas dust.
So different from New Orleans pavement.
She put her hand over her stomach. New town. New life. “Here’s to us, baby James. To our future.” She hefted the bottle of milk she’d purchased at her last gas and restroom stop, toasted her sister’s unborn baby and chugged.
Reinforced by lukewarm milk, she gathered her purse along with her courage and opened the door.
The sultriness of the heavy, humid air hit her hard. One step behind was the scent of pine trees and the odor of horse manure.
The pine trees had towered over her as she’d travelled down the unpaved road leading to the rodeo arena. In the dusk, those tall skinny evergreens appeared imposing, like sentinels warning her that she wasn’t in the big city anymore.
For the baby’s sake, she wouldn’t let this alien landscape intimidate her.
“Everything will be just fine.” She said it out loud to force conviction.
A gaunt, stooped cowboy with a weathered straw hat shadowing his leathered face stopped on the way to his truck.
She knew he drove a truck even though she didn’t know which one. She knew it had to be a truck because she had the only car in the parking lot.
He put two fingers to the brim of his hat and nodded before asking, “You okay, ma’am?”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
The old man gave her a strong look, half-wary that she might be crazy talking to herself and the other half suspicious of the overdressed stranger in their midst.
She tried to reassure him with the brightest smile she could muster after eight hours of driving with all her worldly goods crammed into her little compact car.
“I’m fine, really.”
He glanced at her stomach as if he knew. How could he? She was only four and a half months and had barely begun to show.
She was being fanciful. A fleeting look of no consequence was all it had been.
Working hard to shrug off her supposition, she blamed it on her sensitivity to the situation. On hormones. On paranoia from lack of sleep.
He couldn’t know her secret.
Because if he did, the man she had driven all these hundreds of miles to find would know, too. And then where would she be?
She couldn’t even think about a near future that bleak.
He had to say yes. There was no other option.
She’d called in the only favor she had and it had been a weak one. A doctor she’d once dated. A relationship that hadn’t worked out. What were the odds of that wildcard making the difference?
The odds were already stacked against her and her chances plummeted if the cowboy she was looking for realized she was pregnant.
In her open-toed sandals, she picked her way across the ruts cut into the dried mud and scarce grass sprigs that made up the entrance in front of the arena. Dusky shadows made the short distance seem treacherous.
Ringed by a tall wooden fence, the arena was hidden from her. Looking up, she could see only the glare of the tall lights and the wash of bodies in the stands. Cowboy hats on everyone’s heads made each person’s features indistinguishable from each other.
How would she ever find him?
With only nineteen dollars and twenty-nine cents in her wallet, she had to find him. She could sleep in her car again, but she needed a few gallons in her gas tank to keep her car rolling and a decent meal to keep the baby healthy.
Her stomach chose that moment to growl. Except for her daily dose of midmorning nausea, her pregnancy kept her continually hungry.
She circled the arena, looking for an opening into this world of rodeo that personified testosterone, muscle and mastery of will.
Carefully, she skirted the hitching posts where horses were tethered with only thin strips of rope or single leather reins. Didn’t these monsters know they could pull away with only a shake of their heads?
How far could they kick? A protective hand over her stomach, she gave them wide berth.
Pulling out her thin wallet, she prepared to pay admission, whatever it cost. She had no other choice.
“Excuse me?” She stopped a young girl in perfect make-up, painted-on jeans, embossed boots, long blonde curls and rhinestones in the band of her white cowgirl hat.
“Yes, ma’am?”
Another “ma’am.” This time it made her feel more old than honored.
Giving the girl the last smile she had in her, Deseré asked, “Where’s the entrance and how much is the entry fee?”
The girl gave a kind, sympathetic glance at her inappropriate tailored slacks, silk blouse and strappy sandals before she waved toward the end of the wooden fence. “All the events are free to watch. Just go right on in. But watch your step, okay?”
Deseré looked down to where the girl pointed. She’d missed a huge pile of horse droppings by scant millimeters.
“Thanks.”
As she minced her way toward the stands, she had to get a bit too close for comfort to the massive horses that were either tied to the backs of the stands or were being ridden in various directions from the barns to the arena.
No one else seemed concerned as the tons of muscle on delicate hoofs pranced by so close.
So this was Friday night in Piney Woods, Texas.
“We’re definitely not in New Orleans anymore,” she whispered to the baby nestled in her womb.
As she approached the full stands, several rows of observers started scooting over, packing themselves in tighter as they made room for her.
One of the cowboys on the end stood. He gave her an appreciative, if curious once-over as he touched the brim of his hat. “Please, ma’am, have my seat. I’ll stand.”
“Thank you.” Instead of sliding onto the hard wooden bench, Deseré took a deep breath. No turning back from here. “I’m looking for Dr. Hart.”
“Jordan will be first one out of the gate as soon as we get started again.” He drew his brows together in concern. “You’re not needing him, are you? Do I need to go and fetch him for you?”
It was more the other way around. She was hoping—counting on—Dr. Hart needing her. If he didn’t, she didn’t know what she would do.
Almost on instinct, her hand moved to cover her abdomen. At the last moment she diverted it to the strap of the purse slung across her body.
“No emergency.”
“After his ride, I’ll tell him you’re waiting for him.” He waved her toward his vacated seat on the bench. “Best seat in the house.”
“Thanks.”
“Rusty.” He touched his hat again. “Folks call me Rusty.”
He left the introduction hanging with his expectant look. What would it hurt to introduce herself?
“Deseré.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Deseré.”
Miss Deseré. She knew, even if she’d been wearing a wedding ring that was bigger than Dallas, Rusty would have called her “Miss” as a sign of respect. Among the gentlemen she knew in New Orleans, it was a sign of respect there, too.
The familiar custom eased the tension across her shoulders by the slightest of muscle twitches.
Before she could return the nicety a loudspeaker boomed, “Up next is Jordan Hart, points leader for this event.”
Distantly, she heard a deep voice call out, “Cowboy up.”
She looked in that direction, to see a calf burst from a narrow chute into the arena. Hot on its heels was a cowboy on a very large red horse.
With only the slightest flick of his wrist, Dr. Jordan Hart unfurled his rope. The stiff loop shot out and fell neatly over the neck of the running calf.
His horse stopped short, jerking the calf to a standstill.
Quicker than she could comprehend, Jordan slid out of his saddle and began taking big strides toward the snared calf as his horse backed away without direction to keep the rope taut, with its end looped around the saddle horn.
He grabbed the calf, tipped it onto its side and wrapped three of its four legs using the short ropes he’d carried in his mouth.
Once done, he threw his hands in the air. Another man looking official with his stopwatch and mounted on a horse that stood as still as a statue called, “Time,” as he nodded to someone in the speaker’s booth next to the complex structure Rusty had called “the gate.”
A smattering of applause broke out from the stands. Deseré couldn’t help but notice that most of the cheering came from the women and girls, all dressed similarly to the first girl Deseré had met.
If those were his type of women, then she definitely didn’t fit his mold.
Not that she needed to be Jordan Hart’s type.
She just needed his money.
As Jordan loosened the cinch on his mare, he saw his cousin and ranch foreman, Rusty, approach him.
“Nice run, cuz.” Rusty gave Jordan’s mare a rub on her neck. She leaned into it, clearly enjoying his touch.
“Thanks.”
“Jordan …” Rusty hesitated. “Are you expecting to meet a woman here tonight?”
He quirked his eyebrow at his cousin’s cautious question. “No, I’m not.”
“Well, there’s one waiting for you on the bleachers.”
She wouldn’t be the first buckle bunny to approach him. Under the brim of his hat, he checked her out.
In her city clothes, she certainly wasn’t dressed for a rodeo pickup. He couldn’t be sure as she was slumped on the bench, arms tightly wrapped around her huge purse, but he thought she might be five feet seven or so to his six one. Tall enough to kiss without getting a crick in his neck.
Where had that thought come from?
And the accompanying spark in his veins?
At first he was jolted by it. But by his second heartbeat he welcomed it. It had been so long since he’d felt even a flicker of interest.
Gently blowing on that internal ember, he continued to examine her.
Her mink-brown hair shimmered in the bright overhead lights as it fell to her shoulder blades. It was the perfect length. A man could tangle his hands in that silky softness as they lay together, but the length wouldn’t get caught underneath her when they tangled arms and legs.
Jordan let that image grow, reveling in the way his nerve endings seemed to be waking up.
Hope. He’d despaired of ever feeling that emotion again.
She moved her purse, revealing the way she filled out her blouse.
No model-skinny skeleton here.
Ample.
Just the way he liked them.
A flame of interest burned through the apathy he’d been living in these last months.
It felt good, and not just in his groin.
Want. Desire. The burning sensation in the pit of his solar plexus was a very good thing.
Need.
Not so good. He didn’t need anyone.
“She said she was looking for Dr. Hart. When I pointed you out, she didn’t seem to recognize you. Do you know her?”
Jordan shook his head. “Nope.”
“Got any suspicions?”
Jordan ignored his cousin’s curiosity, giving a strong stare at Rusty’s bronc-riding vest instead. “You sure you want to do this?”
Not that Jordan didn’t want to climb on a bucking bronc himself. Only, as the older cousin, he felt duty-bound to make a token protest after Rusty’s last unsuccessful ride and consequent fall.
He refrained from rubbing his hand over his face.
He felt so old lately. And so numb.
“It’s what we do, right?” Rusty shifted under Jordan’s gaze. “Get thrown. Get right back on.”
Jordan shook his head. “Until you get smart enough to realize you don’t have to prove anything to anybody.”
Unwanted sympathy showed in Rusty’s eyes. “I guess you’ve had enough adrenaline rush to last a lifetime, huh?”
Jordan tightened his lips, neither confirming nor denying it.
He was supposed to be recovering from too much living on the edge. How could he admit to anyone that without that infusion of fight-or-flight-induced chemical his life was gray and deadly dull, bordering on meaningless?
His mare nudged him, clearly jealous when he should be paying attention to her. She didn’t need words to make herself clear.
Absently, he reached up to scratch behind her ears. “No need to worry, Valkyrie. You’re my best girl.”
Rusty punched Jordan in his shoulder.
Jordan welcomed the pain to bring him back to himself.
“That’s your problem, cuz. You’ve got women driving all the way out from who knows where to find you and you’d rather keep company with your horse.” Rusty gave him a serious stare. “Get thrown. Get back on. That’s what we do.”
“Or wise up and learn I don’t have to prove anything to anybody.” With conviction, Jordan repeated his earlier statement, knowing neither he nor Rusty were talking about anything close to bull riding.
Rusty jostled him. “I’ll say this about that city girl you brought us a few years ago. She tried. She really tried. You must have been doing something right for her to stay so long.”
“What I was doing right was being a doctor. She was really impressed with that.”
He ignored the worried look in Rusty’s eyes and forced a grin to lighten the moment as he answered, “When she found out the only store within a fifty-mile radius was a combination feed store/hardware store/ boot shop with a smattering of jeans, hats and pearl button shirts to choose from, she quickly become disillusioned with small-town living.”
Forcing those smiles was getting harder and harder.
“That was it? The lack of fancy department stores?” Rusty wasn’t the first to try to pry out more information.
But a gentleman didn’t kiss and tell. Jordan might not have a lot left going for him, but he was determined to keep his dignity.
He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “She loved boutiques more than me. I’ve learned to live with it.”
“And you’ve had plenty of offers of companionship from the buckle bunnies to sooth any man’s ego.”
Jordan had to admit he’d taken advantage of enough of those offers that his ego should be well soothed.
But afterglow didn’t last much past sunrise, did it?
He stole a quick glance at the woman in the stands. Should he recognize her?
“Old history.” He leaned into Valkyrie, taking comfort in how the mare supported his weight. “I’ve grown up a bit since then.”
As his shoulder throbbed where Rusty had punched him, he felt much older than his years.
Between the physical exertion he’d been doing to try to exhaust himself enough to sleep and the tossing and turning he’d done once he finally forced himself into bed, his bones hurt to the marrow.
Add that to his clinic schedule that had him working over sixty hours a week and he was starting to feel trapped in a dark tunnel as the light of the freight train bore toward him faster and faster.
What were the odds of finding a nurse practitioner who could take some of his load from him?
Over the loud speaker, the announcer called Rusty to the gate.
Jordan squared his shoulders. “Good luck.”
“I don’t need luck. Just a bull that wants to buck. Skill will take care of the rest.” Rusty gave him a cocky grin then strutted toward the gates.
He watched his younger cousin with envy. What would it be like to feel alive again? To feel the blood rush through his veins? To feel his heart beat fast and his mind flash with lightning-quick thoughts? To feel a connection with another human being?
Although he tried to stop himself, he couldn’t stop from glancing over at the woman staring intensely at him as if she were looking inside his head.
What did she see?
He pulled the brim of his hat lower and turned away, determined to ignore the feeling of being evaluated.
CHAPTER TWO (#ub94b9500-69ef-5b57-a64a-67d8deb39b32)
DESERÉ TOOK HER time studying Dr. Jordan Hart. Under cover of this crowd, there was no way he would notice a single pair of eyes trained on him. That she kept thinking he was glancing in her direction was purely her imagination as she never caught his eye, even though she tried.
He stood at least six feet one or two. His cowboy hat and boots made him look even taller. With his hat pulled low, she couldn’t make out the color of his eyes or hair, but thought they might both be dark brown.
He was rangy with a stringy kind of muscle that would make his movements graceful.
As he shifted his weight, the chaps he wore emphasized his package. Modestly, she tried to look away, but her raging hormones wouldn’t let her.
Something about being pregnant had kicked her libido into high gear. Whether it was because she no longer needed to worry about an accidental pregnancy or a release of hormones gone wild, or something else entirely, she couldn’t tell for sure. She just knew that she was noticing men even more than she had during her intensely boy-crazy teenage years.
And she didn’t want just sex. She wanted to be touched, petted, protected.
How many nights had she gone to sleep lately, pretending that her fantasy lover lay next to her, that he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close, his big hand over her slightly softening belly?
Keeping this baby she carried hadn’t been the original plan. But, then, the plan hadn’t been for her sister to die, either.
Deseré pushed down her grief and straightened her spine. She was a survivor. Always had been. And always would be—especially now with her son to care for.
Her son.
Get a grip, Deseré. That’s what her sister would have told her if she were here. We do what we have to do to survive.
That’s what her sister had told her ten years ago as Deseré, acting as maid of honor, had arranged her sister’s wedding veil so Celeste could walk down the aisle into the arms of the rich and powerful neurosurgeon who would provide for them both.
Deseré had thought that being a surrogate for Celeste would make up for some of the sacrifices her older sister had made for her. And it had, until Celeste had run a red light while talking on the phone and had crashed into an oncoming eighteen-wheeler.
Even though Deseré knew it was too early, she imagined baby James moving deep inside her.
She would do more than survive. She would build a happy, healthy life for her son and for herself.
In the indigo sky, the first star appeared opposite the fading sunset. Feeling foolish, she made a wish. A miracle. Just a little one. Just a chance to prove myself, okay?
A feeling of be careful what you ask for washed through her.
She shook it off. Fanciful and unrealistic things had no place in her practical world.
The reality was that everyone would say the politically correct thing. They would say her pregnancy didn’t matter in her job hunt.
But the truth was no one wanted to hire a woman who would need time off to have a baby, not to mention time out of her workday for the morning sickness that struck like clockwork at ten a.m. each and every morning.
In less than a month her pregnancy would be evident. But by then she’d have had the job long enough to show her competence, long enough to make herself indispensable.
Her stomach lurched as she thought of how badly she needed this job.
With great willpower she stopped herself from staring at the man who could give her a safe, secure future.
Surely, her sister’s husband, the great Dr. Santone, didn’t have influence over every sleepy little town in Texas, did he?
What would a small-town country doctor care that a big-time surgeon who sat on the board of the largest hospital in Louisiana would be heartily upset if his sister-in-law found a job in the medical field?
Gathering her purse and slinging it over her shoulder, she pushed off the bench, remembering at the last moment to watch where she stepped as she walked toward Dr. Jordan Hart.
Feeling self-conscious, she looked up in time to see he was watching her every step of the way.
A challenge? Why?
Under the wide brim of his hat his eyes were too shaded by the darkening night skies to read. But his lips, so full and rich only a moment ago, were now set tight and grim.
“Dr. Hart?” Deseré called out.
“Just Jordan, ma’am.” Automatically, Jordan touched the brim of his hat, not even thinking about it until he saw her eyes follow the movement of his hand.
She held out her hand. “Deseré Novak. Your new nurse practitioner.”
Not a rodeo groupie at all. But she was an assertive little thing, wasn’t she?
Dr. Wong’s recommendation had seemed to contain a lot more between the lines than in black-and-white.
Dr. Wong hadn’t exactly said she’d worked for him. The letter had been carefully worded. What Dr. Wong had said was that Deseré Novak deserved a chance.
So Jordan would give her one. But he’d only promised an interview.
Or did she think Dr. Wong’s recommendations carried that much weight with him? Jordan was a man who made up his own mind about things.
“You’re early for your interview. We didn’t expect you until Monday.”
She gave him a smile. “I thought I’d check out the place first.”
“Makes sense.” He put his hand in hers. “Thanks for coming to Piney Woods. I know we’re a long way from New Orleans.”
Her grip was firm. No-nonsense. Assertive. With just enough give to suggest hidden softness.
Ms. Novak’s eyes flicked in worry before bravado had her lifting her chin. “I’ve already researched your practice. I’m sure it’s perfect for me. You won’t be sorry to hire me.”
If Jordan hadn’t noticed the slight quiver he would have been fooled into thinking she was totally confident that she had the job.
It wasn’t that he’d had any better-qualified applicants. How many experienced nurse practitioners wanted to move out to the edge of nowhere, taking room and board as a significant portion of their pay, when they could be pulling in the big bucks in any major city?
“We’ll talk about it in the morning.” He gestured to the open arena, still and quiet between events. “I’ve got other things going on tonight.”
She stood still waiting for—for what?
Something about her stillness made him notice the dark circles under her eyes.
“The closest hotel is back toward Longview about two hours away. You may want to head in that direction before it gets much later.”
She shook her head, shaking off his suggestion. “I understood room and board would be part of the deal. If you could point me toward this boarding house, maybe I could stay the night?”
“Boarding house.” Jordan’s smile was so tight it made his mouth hurt, way too tight to be reassuring, he was sure. “I guess, in a way, it is.”
His office administrator had drawn up the job description.
It would be just like Nancy to gloss over the details to get what she wanted.
And what she wanted was a local medical facility for the folks of Piney Woods, solving two problems at once. The town and surrounding ranches would have good medical attention.
The loudspeaker blasted over the explanation he was about to give to clear up his office administrator’s oversight.
Like everyone else in the stands, he turned to the gate to see his cousin poised over the back of a snorting and twisting bull.
Bull riding was a young man’s sport. Rusty was getting too old for this.
But, then, his bullheaded cousin would probably realize that in the morning when he was too stiff to roll out of bed.
Jordan had been there, done that, got the belt buckle—and the scars—to prove it.
The woman next to him winced as she saw Rusty drop down onto the wide back of the bull.
Rusty settled in—as well as a man could settle onto the back of an angry bull—and gave a sharp nod.
The gate opened, the bull rushed out, and Jordan silently counted in his head, one second, two seconds, three—
And Rusty was off the bull and on the ground.
The rodeo clowns rushed in to distract the twenty-five-hundred-pound, four-legged kicking fury so Rusty could roll away from the dangerous hoofs.
Jordan squinted through the falling light, looking for that first twitch that said Rusty was going to catch his breath, jump up and walk out of the arena any second now.
“Come on, Rusty, shake it off,” he murmured, as if saying it would send his cousin into action.
Dust hung in the air, as time stood still.
Rusty didn’t move.
But the woman next to Jordan did.
She rushed toward the arena, looking like she intended to climb through the iron-pipe fence separating her from the bull.
Without thought, Jordan reached out and pulled her close to him.
“No.” It came out harsh and uncompromising. It had been meant to. He’d been trained to give orders that were followed without question. He’d had too much practice to break the habit now.
There were a lot of habits he needed to work on breaking—like waking up in a cold sweat every night from his murky, twisted memory dreams. And jumping every time the barn door slammed closed, sounding too much like metal exploding.
And getting an adrenaline rush when he pulled a woman close to him to protect her from a non-existent danger.
Of course, she wasn’t intending to go over the rail into an arena with an enraged bull running loose. Who in their right mind would?
His stomach sank as he had a surge of doubt in his ability to judge a situation. His instincts, which had always served him so well, might be a tad on the twisted side now.
A tad?
Still, he held her tightly pressed against his body as she struggled to get free, something deep inside him telling him to hold on tight and not let go.
Under other circumstances Jordan would have tried to defuse the situation by making a joke at his own expense, along with an apology as he sheepishly laughed off his rash and inappropriate behavior.
But his cousin lay facedown in the dirt, too still for too long, and Jordan had no words, much less a laugh.
“Let me go.” She struggled against him. “Can’t you see he needs help?”
Maybe his instincts weren’t as far off as he’d thought they were.
Jordan gave a quick glance at the clowns as they herded the bull through the gate. One more second to make sure they latched it tight.
Then he let her loose, moved around her to put one boot on the top rung and vaulted over the fence racing toward Rusty with too many dire diagnoses running through his head for him to think straight.
As he knelt by his cousin’s side, Deseré knelt on the other side. Had she gone over the top, too? Or squeezed between the rails? Did it matter? All that mattered was Rusty, lying so still. He was never still. But now …
Jordan felt frozen, inside and out.
Deseré was on her hands and knees, her silk shirt and slacks getting filthy as she tried to assess Rusty’s state of consciousness.
Oh, God. Jordan thought it as a prayer, as cold dread started in the pit of his stomach, making its icy way to his heart. He hadn’t even considered that Rusty might be …
“Unconscious,” she said, her voice clipped.
She put her hand on Rusty’s back, noting its rise and fall.
“Breathing,” she reported.
Jordan nodded, realizing he’d been holding his own breath. Vacantly, he gazed down at his cousin’s body, trying to get his own breathing regulated.
Worn, dusty boots stopped next to Jordan’s knees. Jordan didn’t know and didn’t care who they belonged to.
With creaking knees Plato squatted down and touched Jordan’s elbow. “Emergency Dispatch says the ambulances and paramedic crews are tied up. A truckload of teenagers tried to beat a train across the tracks. They don’t know how long it will be. Do we need a chopper?” His calm voice, steady rheumy eyes and familiar wrinkled face piercing Jordan’s fog.
Jordan tried to make the words make sense. The only thing getting through to him was that Rusty lay still, too still.
He put his hand on Rusty’s back, willing him to take another breath.
“Dr. Hart?” Deseré prompted. “Authorize air transport?”
She nodded her head in the affirmative, giving him an obvious hint as to what his answer should be.
Jordan squeezed out a reply. “Yes.”
How long had it been between the time Rusty had hit the ground and now? It seemed like hours. Or years. But it could have only been minutes. They would have called emergency services immediately, right?
His brain seemed to be thawing—finally. He was applying logic and making assumptions. Now he needed to apply that brain to Rus—to his patient. Thinking of his cousin as his patient would help him put some distance between his panic and his personal pain.
Vacantly, he noted that Deseré was positioning herself flat on her stomach, almost nose to nose with Rusty, something he should have already done.
“I’ll stabilize his head while you check for spinal injuries,” she said, stirring the churned-up dirt of the arena with her breath.
Jordan noted her technique. Thumbs on collarbone, fingers behind shoulders, Rusty’s head firmly supported on her forearms. She definitely knew what she was doing.
She would be stuck like that until the emergency crew arrived with their cervical collar and backboard and trained crew to whisk Rusty to the hospital in Longview, the closest trauma center but still twenty-five minutes away by air.
If the last ten minutes had seemed to be a decade, the next twenty-five would pass like centuries.
The way Deseré lay flat on her belly with her arms extended, holding Rusty tight to keep him immobile, breathing in the thick red dust, each minute must be torture.
Running his hands over Rusty’s head then down, he started to check his cousin’s spine carefully.
No weird angles. But that didn’t mean much after the unnatural contortions Rusty’s body had gone through while airborne.
As he got to mid-back, Rusty stirred.
“Tickles,” he complained, as he tried to lift his face from the dirt.
But Jordan put one hand firmly on his lower hips and the other high on his back to hold him firmly in place.
“Be still,” he growled, not caring about his lack of bedside manner.
“Can’t. Back muscles are cramping.”
“You can and you will. Be still while I finish checking to see if anything’s broken.”
Rusty lay still, as ordered.
Distantly Jordan noticed that his voice sounded fierce and uncompromising. Distantly, he also noticed his hands were following the correct path, searching for injuries.
Distantly. As if he was watching himself from a place not here, not now. As if his heart and soul weren’t even connected to his mind or body. As if this wasn’t his one and only cousin who he’d grown up with, shared camping trips with, shared double dates with and had left behind when he’d enlisted so the army would pay for his education all those years ago.
“Can you feel my hand on yours?” Jordan steeled himself to hear the wrong answer, going into total thinking mode and leaving no room for mind-clouding emotions like fear.
“Yeah, I can.”
Holding his relief at bay, Jordan touched Rusty’s other hand then both his calves above his boots. As Rusty gave an affirmative to each touch, Jordan felt his emotions continue to detach themselves.
Stoicism and survival—at least mental survival—went hand in hand. It was a lesson he’d apparently missed during his time in medical school but had discovered quickly enough for himself while in the field. Combat conditions had made him a fast learner.
In a meek, scared voice, Rusty asked, “Jordan, am I okay?”
“Just checking you out, Rust Bucket.” From that place far remote from him where he’d left his emotions, Jordan knew calling his cousin by his detested nickname would be reassuring. Until the hospital’s helicopter arrived, soothing the patient was all he could do.
The patient. Jordan lumped Rusty in with the thousands of patients he’d treated. He wouldn’t allow himself to connect, wouldn’t allow himself to care. Not here. Not now.
Maybe that other Jordan, the one who seemed so far away from him right now, was caring. But all this Jordan felt was numb. And efficient.
Being efficient was critical.
Maybe later he could feel.
Or maybe later would never come.
But none of that mattered right now.
Finally, after he’d lost count of the breaths he’d begun to count in and out, he heard the helicopter land in the dark clearing where someone had set out flares.
As the paramedic crew got into place with their backboard and cervical collar and their professionalism, he heard himself give them a succinct account of the accident, of Rusty’s state of consciousness, of his initial findings of a possible broken arm and of Rusty’s pain level.
And the pain of Rusty, lying facedown in the dirt, hit him in the heart.
Too late, he remembered that numbness was better.
Still on his knees, he moved back, getting out of a paramedic’s way so he could do his job.
Desperately, he grasped for that numbness before it could slip away.
Instead, he could only kneel there in the dirt as he fought back the moisture that blurred his vision.
How many times had he knelt at the side of young men and women while he’d served his time in Afghanistan as they’d waited to be airlifted to safety? As if any place over there had felt safe.
Now was not the time to think of that.
Not now. Not ever, if he could keep pushing all those memories back.
Any second now he would find the strength, the motivation to stand.
He just needed to shore up his personal dam and everything would be fine.
Deseré stood next to him. When had she relinquished her position to the paramedic? When the paramedic had slipped the collar on and loaded Rusty onto the backboard, of course.
She put her hand on his shoulder, a firm touch followed by a squeeze.
And just like that he didn’t feel so alone, so isolated, so solely responsible.
As if Deseré’s voice had breached the invisible wall around him, he heard her tell the paramedics, “We’ll notify his family.”
That’s when he realized they had been speaking to him, asking him questions about next of kin, giving him information about where they were taking Rusty and how to contact the hospital for updates.
How many times had he spoken with families, giving them the same kind of information? Only he’d had to talk via phone to loved ones who had been continents away, speaking into an unsympathetic piece of plastic in his hand as he’d explained that their soldier had lost hands or eyes or legs.
He’d heard everything from silence to deep soulful keening over those invisible airwaves. Each response had burned itself into his mind.
How long would he fight the memories?
A paramedic knelt next to him, gently jostling him. “We’ve got the patient, Dr. Hart.”
How long had he knelt there, in the way?
Too long, even if it had only been for a few seconds.
He stood and backed away. From somewhere outside himself, he said, “I’ll follow in my truck.”
One of the rodeo clowns, who had been standing behind him and whom he’d been vaguely aware of, though he didn’t seem to belong in this scene with his brightly painted face, baggy clothes and suspenders, said quietly, “Jordan, you’re our medical professional on duty. We’ll have to shut down the event if you leave. I understand about Rusty and all, but there are some big purses and points on the line here.”
Jordan looked over at the woman with the ruined pants and blouse, filthy, too-delicate shoes and streaks of dirt on her cheek.
As if he were standing beside himself, watching, he saw himself lift his hand and wipe at a streak near her mouth with his thumb.
Her eyes deepened into a dark navy as she froze. She didn’t even blink. Just looked at him like a deer in the headlights, too stunned to run away.
Embarrassment dropped him back into himself as he realized what he’d done.
He clenched his fist as he focused on the problem at hand and made his decision. “My nurse practitioner will take over my duties here.”
He looked up, spotting Plato and Sissy, and motioned them over.
“Deseré Novak, meet Plato, my ranch help, and Sissy Hart, my sister and resident veterinarian. Ms. Novak will be taking over in my absence. Plato will introduce you around and show you the medical supplies. Sissy will make sure you have a place to stay tonight.” He paused, looking into each of their faces. “Any questions?”
Plato swiped his hand over his face. “You can take the officer out of the military, but you can’t …” He let the rest of his statement trail off under Jordan’s glare.
Beside him, Deseré was nodding her acceptance as if nothing could ruffle her composure.
Sissy frowned. “Jordan, where—?”
Jordan looked at the lights of the helicopter growing dimmer in the sky. “Call Nancy. This is her mess.”
“We’ve got this, Doctor.” Deseré gave him a calm, if tight smile. “Go do what you need to do.”
As if two massive boulders had fallen from his shoulders, Jordan felt energy course through him, the energy he needed to make it through tonight.
“Thanks.” Emotion had him sounding gruffer than he had intended.
Deseré didn’t seem to mind. “You’re welcome. Now go.”
Ignoring the shocked expressions on Sissy’s and Plato’s faces, Jordan took long, quick strides toward his truck as the helicopter lifted off, strobing bright light into the darkening sky.
As he climbed into his truck, he thought he should have nagging guilt about deserting his post. Instead, he felt comfort, deep down from the place where his instincts were born.
He was no longer alone.
For the first time in a very long time he could feel the tight, invisible bands around his chest loosen enough to let him draw in a deep breath.
The feeling of relief was seductive and he wanted to breathe in more.
But he couldn’t forget—wouldn’t forget—that letting down his guard created a sure-fire path to disappointment and bone-crushing pain.
CHAPTER THREE (#ub94b9500-69ef-5b57-a64a-67d8deb39b32)
WATCHING DR. HART stride away, stretching out his steps, going over the pipe-rail fence in one fluid motion, making the most of those incredibly long, lean legs of his while seeming to be unhurried and in control, left Deseré feeling lost and alone.
But wasn’t that her status quo with men?
Not that Dr. Hart was a—Of course he was a man, but he wasn’t a relationship or a potential relationship, except purely in the professional sense.
And that’s the only sense she needed. Except for her common sense, which she seemed to have misplaced.
My nurse practitioner, Dr. Jordan had said. That meant she was hired, right?
She hadn’t been able to acknowledge her worries and doubt before, not even to herself, but now she could admit to herself that she’d had no other options if this one hadn’t worked out.
Going back the way she had come hadn’t been an option. She’d never been afraid of any man. Cautious, sure. Wary, always. But not out-and-out afraid.
Not until her brother-in-law had sidled up to her at her sister’s funeral and said he’d made arrangements out of state for an off-the-books abortion. They could call it a miscarriage, blaming it on grief.
When she’d refused, she’d seen pure evil in his eyes.
As time had passed, he’d changed his tune, deciding Deseré would take her sister’s place as mother to the child that wasn’t biologically his—and in his bed. He’d had it all figured out in that twisted mind of his, even down to the admiration of his friends when he’d magnanimously taken on the responsibility of his dead wife’s sister.
An icy chill ran down her spine as she remembered his threats, the least of which had been unemployment as he’d tried to wreck her financially so she would have to comply with his plans.
Her brother-in-law had made it very clear she would never work in New Orleans again. And the interviews she’d had at all the major hospitals in Louisiana, Mississippi and most of Texas had emphasized the reach of his power.
Thankfully, he had forgotten this tiny fly speck on the map. Hopefully, he’d never find it.
“Ma’am? I’m Plato.” The old cowboy she’d first seen in the parking lot was at her side. He tipped his hat as he officially introduced himself.
Deseré figured that meant something, some kind of acceptance into this world of boots and spurs.
“Deseré Novak.” She held out her dirty hand then tried to pull it back. “Sorry.”
He took her hand in his. His gnarled knuckles stood out as he gave her a light but firm pressure. “No, ma’am. The way I see it, that’s angel dust coating your hand, not dirt. What you did for Rusty, well …” He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand before he cleared his throat. “I’m sure one of the girls could come up with something for you to wear, if you wanted to change.”
Deseré looked down at her blouse and slacks, covered in red-tinged dust. “It’s a good thing I’m not a dry cleaning-only kind of woman.”
She brushed at her pants leg and her hand became as dirt-coated as her pants. Not that her hands or arms were especially clean after she’d lain on her belly in the dirt, stabilizing Rusty’s head and neck. She probably had red dirt all over her face, too.
Plato gave her a rueful look. “We’ve got iron ore in our soil around here.” He pointed to her pants. “That might not come out.”
Deseré categorized her limited wardrobe. Three pairs of slacks, two blouses, a set of very washed and worn scrubs, one little black dress inherited from her sister’s closet, a pair of jeans with the waistband already too snug, a pair of sweats and three oversize T-shirts she slept in.
“I’ve got it covered.” She turned to head toward her car in the parking lot but all she saw was a solid ring of pipe fencing.
And bleachers full of people watching her every move as she stood under the bright arena lights.
As she moved, the crowd erupted into cheers.
For her? She’d only done what any medical professional would have done.
Her heart beat as if pure energy surged through it instead of blood as she soaked in the approval. It had been so long since she’d felt like anyone was on her side. And now bleachers full of strangers were cheering her on.
It felt good, but overwhelming at the same time.
“This way, ma’am.” Plato put his hand on her elbow, making her feel like rodeo royalty.
Cowgirl princess had always been a fantasy of hers. But her cowboy prince had already left the arena.
Her cowboy prince? It must be the adrenaline swing, the sleepless nights—her stomach growled—and the hunger getting to her.
She didn’t believe in princes on white horses rescuing damsels in distress. She didn’t believe in damsels in distress, either. All she believed in was herself—and some days that was hard enough, without trying to add fairy-tales to the mix.
As they reached a part of the fence that looked as solid as every other part, Plato swung a gate open. It creaked and squealed on its hinges, proving it didn’t get much use.
A woman in her forties, or well-preserved fifties, with big white-blonde hair and huge diamonds at her ears, neck and fingers, met her at the gate. She could have been the mother of any of the blonde cowgirls now crowding the rail.
“I’m Gayle-Anne.” Her smile was orthodontia perfect. “Honey, you can use my trailer to change in. It’s not very big but it’s private.”
Deseré bet it was a lot bigger than the bathroom stall at the discount department store where she’d last changed.
“Thanks. I’ll just get clean clothes from my car.”
If the woman wondered why Deseré had a wardrobe change in her car, she was polite enough not to ask about it.
How long did rodeos last? Hours?
Squeezing into her tight jeans had no appeal, especially if she was going to be stuck on one of those wooden benches for any length of time.
Too tired to give fashion decisions any more thought, she unzipped her bag and grabbed the first thing that came to hand, her sweats and a T-shirt.
The promise of comfort more than made up for her lack of ability to make a better decision.
Digging into the bottom of the bag, she snagged her tennis shoes and exchanged them for her useless sandals. The beat-up shoes had seen better days but, then, so had she.
And so had Jordan Hart.
She might have been the one lying in the dirt, but he was the one walking through hell. She’d seen it in his eyes as he’d gazed down at his cousin. Being a stoic medical professional worked just fine until it was someone close to you who needed your care.
She’d felt so helpless. So useless. The only thing she’d been able to do for her sister had been to promise to take care of her baby, a promise she’d given without reservation, then had had to fight dirty to keep.
She didn’t regret the loss of her home or her career even a fraction as much as she grieved the loss of her sister.
Inside, baby James moved. Everyone would tell her that he was too small to feel, but they would all be wrong. She might not feel his tiny body, but she felt his great soul inside her.
She would keep her promise. She’d given her word.
And right now her word was the only significant thing she had to call her own.
Jordan paced the hallway, waiting, waiting. X-ray. CT scan. Radiologist report.
Rusty.
And the woman he’d left behind. What had he done, hiring her like that? Being impulsive wasn’t like him. Had never been like him.
While it was true that he hadn’t been himself in a while now, had he completely lost his mind?
He stopped pacing. Maybe.
Pain arced through him, starting in his heart and spreading through his veins. The pain of fear.
Not now. Now was not the time to have a panic attack.
Through sheer force of will he made himself start walking again. Walk. Breathe. Don’t think.
Don’t think about the woman waiting at his house, confused. Needing a job. Desperate.
He’d seen it in her eyes.
What had she seen in his?
Deseré’s back screamed in pain from sitting on that hard wooden bench so long and her stomach burned with indigestion that had to rival the pits of hell.
The old cowboy had brought her a hot dog and a Frito pie, both covered in spicy chili, apologizing that this was all the little makeshift food stand had to offer.
She’d eaten them, of course. Even if she hadn’t been starving, turning down free food would have been foolish in her financial situation.
But now, if she could go back in time, she probably would have done the same thing. Heartburn would eventually fade away and she needed the calories and scant nutrients the food provided.
As for going back in time—if she had that ability, she’d certainly take herself back a lot further than a few hours ago.
But how far back? Back before their father had died in Hurricane Katrina’s flooding and Celeste had taken on the responsibility of raising her younger sister? Would that be far enough back?
What part of her history would she be willing to accept as her starting point for life?
Here and now. That’s all she had. That’s all she’d ever had.
But Dr. Hart had given her a future. My nurse practitioner, he’d said, giving her his stamp of approval, his acceptance and his protection all in one hasty pronouncement.
In a small community like this, everything he’d said and done was significant. Even now, she’d bet plenty of folks were dissecting and discussing every nuance.
Even after she was invited to the announcers’ booth, their flimsy metal chairs weren’t an improvement over the hard wooden benches and the staleness of the booth, the odor of burnt coffee mixed with dust and sweat that had built up over the years made her stomach roil.
She swatted at a gnat on her neck, one of millions in league with the mosquitoes that flocked to taste any sliver of exposed skin.
She’d opted to sit outside as the night air brought the heat and humidity down a few degrees. The perspiration soaking her shirt chilled her, making her shiver.
And she was so tired she was having difficulty deciding if she was awake or asleep. She wrapped her arms around herself, surprised to find a blue jean jacket awkwardly draped around her chair and over her shoulders.
That answered it. She’d been asleep—asleep enough that she was startled when the older cowboy, the one she recognized from the parking lot, cleared his throat.
“Ma’am?” Plato’s volume, a touch above a normal speaking voice, firm but still calm and gentle, clued her in that this wasn’t the first time he’d tried to awaken her.
She blinked, trying to bring his leathered face into focus.
Pasting on the best smile she could, even though it felt extremely weak to her, she answered in kind, “Sir?”
Relief showed in his rheumy blue eyes.
Cataracts? Glaucoma? The medical professional started to evaluate diagnoses.
But the exhausted woman overruled them, appreciating the concern and sympathy she found in those bloodshot, yellow-tinged eyes.
“Ready to go home now?” His words made his rough voice sound sweeter than any angel’s song.
Home. Had she finally found home?
“Yes.” Awkwardly, she gathered her purse, trying to hold the jacket around her shoulders while she wiggled functionality into her swollen feet.
He reached out for her.
As an independent woman, she usually waved away the courtesy.
But tonight, his hand on her elbow, guiding her, steadying her, gave her more comfort than she would ever have imagined.
Gratefully and graciously, she accepted the other hand he held out for her as she made the step from the second-row bleacher to the ground.
“You can follow Sissy, or I can drive your car for you and catch a ride back here for my truck.”
Her car. All that she owned was in that car. The stark reality was enough to push away the blanket of sleep that weakened her.
Her brain jump-started and she remembered who Sissy was—Jordan’s sister.
Jordan. When had he become Jordan in her head instead of Dr. Hart?
“I’ll follow Sissy.”
Deseré should have let the old man drive her.
Bleary-eyed, she slammed on her brakes and slowed enough to just miss the bumper of Sissy’s truck as the vet turned off the two-lane road onto a crumbling black-topped street that had deteriorated on the edges so that it was only the width of a car and a half.
Carefully, she put distance between her car and the truck in front of her, on alert for sudden brake lights.
And her caution was validated when Sissy slowed her truck to a crawl and turned into a dirt and gravel drive without bothering to use her blinkers first.
Trees crowded the driveway—and Deseré used the description of driveway very loosely. How far away from the street was the house?
And then they turned a steep curve and there it was, a farmhouse that could have come from a movie set, or her dreams.
Headlights showed a huge, two-storied, white-painted wooden house with gray shingles and a darker gray double door centered under a deep covered wraparound porch. Rocking chairs promised the good life once the grimy cushions were replaced and they were swept clear of cobwebs.
If Deseré had to pick out the perfect picture of a potential home, this would be it.
Which meant she immediately put herself on guard.
Nothing was this easy. This neat. This perfect.
Where was the catch?
Ahead of her, Sissy had her arm stuck out her truck’s window as she wildly gestured to an empty carport that branched off from the drive.
Deseré interpreted that to mean, “Park here.” She could always move it later if she was wrong.
She pulled into the expansive parking place, taking up most of the room by sloppily not squaring her car with the open space. The lack of order felt off, but not as off as her head, which chose that moment to swim in that dizzy, depleted way that meant she’d gone as far as she could today.
Sissy inspected her parking job and clearly found it lacking. With a frown, she shrugged and said, “Jordan will just have to deal with it.”
Deseré knew she should ask for clarification but right now she didn’t really want to know. Knowing might mean exerting more energy than she had to give.
Grabbing her backpack and wriggling her arms through the straps, she breathed deeply to gather her strength for wrestling her rolling suitcase from the back seat.
“Since Jordan has hired you sans interview, Nancy said to bring you here and she would get everything sorted out later.” Sissy swept her hand to indicate the house before her. “Home, sweet home.”
Deseré felt like Sissy was waiting for a reply.
“It’s large,” she answered politely, reserving judgment until she saw the inside of the house.
Sissy nudged her aside and pulled the suitcase out for her, handling it like it was full of popcorn. “I’ll carry this one for you.”
Normally, Deseré would have protested, but she didn’t have it in her. Instead, she muttered a tired “Thanks” and pulled her purse and smaller duffel bag from the front seat of the car.
On autopilot, she followed Sissy up the three steps to the front porch then through the wooden and etched-glass front door.
Sissy paused as she looked down the short wing to the left then up to the second floor. She bit her lower lip and her brow creased as she seemed to be puzzling out a dilemma. “I’m not sure where to put you.”
“Anywhere is fine.” Deseré mustered up a polite smile, wondering how many other tenants shared the boarding house.
Sissy quit deliberating and nodded her head. “Okay, then. This way.” She headed up a staircase lit with just enough wall sconces to cast shadows on the floral patterned carpet runner covering each oak-plank step, dragging Deseré’s large suitcase over each one.
Deseré didn’t need to respond. She would only have been talking to Sissy’s back. Instead, she meekly followed the diminutive woman hefting the large suitcase to the end of the hallway to the left.
Sissy swung open the last door to reveal a bedroom. The room was enormous, bigger than the whole living room and den combination in Deseré’s old apartment.
The sight of that luxurious bed put the rest of the room into the background. A huge queen-size bed held a half-dozen big pillows propped against the headboard and the promise of sweet dreams.
A calming lavender color scheme and trophies and blue ribbons displayed on every inch of shelf space gave the room a mixed attitude of super-girly but highly competitive.
“This was my room before I moved out. I should probably pack up some of this stuff, huh? But the closet’s cleared out so at least you can unpack.” She pointed to a closed door next to a substantial desk. “The bathroom’s through that door.”
Sissy dumped the suitcase outside the bifold louvered doors of a closet then shoved aside a group of trophies on a wide chest of drawers, took Deserés duffel bag from her and plopped it onto the cleared space.
An unexpected expression of doubt crossed Sissy’s eyes. “I hope this will do.”
“It’s great.” Deseré didn’t need to dredge up a fake smile. It came quite naturally as she emphasized her answer. “Really. It’s wonderful.”
“Well, okay, then.” Sissy looked out into the hallway, obviously ready to make her exit. “I’m sure Jordan will straighten out any questions you might have in the morning.”
Absently, Deseré nodded, wishing Sissy would leave. Falling into that lovely bed and stretching out her back was the only thing she wanted to straighten out right now.
“Good night, then.” Sissy didn’t wait for a reply. Her duty done, she started out the bedroom door.
“Good night,” Deseré said to Sissy’s retreating backside, then closed the door as soon as she thought it polite to do so.
Her first inclination was to fall into that bed and sleep for a week. But her mouth had a sour taste that couldn’t be ignored and grit coated her face and hands.
Cleanliness warred with exhaustion. A quick wash-up would be worth the extra time and energy.
Opening the solid door next to the desk, Deseré was sure she’d opened the door to bathroom heaven.
The modernized bathroom was the size of a normal bedroom, with two basins and a huge vanity. The size of each of the basins put the discount store’s basins she’d been spot-bathing in to shame. A wall-to-wall mirror hung over the vanity, reflecting the light from nickel-plated fixtures that caught the atmosphere of farmhouse yet produced enough light for professional make-up application.
An alcove held the toilet separately from the frosted glass doors, which must hide the shower enclosure.
Immediately, every inch of skin on Deseré’s body wanted scrubbing. She couldn’t stop herself from wondering where Jordan would be showering tonight. Would anyone be washing his back?
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Connie Cox
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Since returning from the army Dr Jordan Hart has isolated himself on his ranch-based medical practice, preferring to be left alone with his battleground ghosts. Then Nurse Deseré Novak comes to his sleepy Texan town – pregnant and alone – weeks before Christmas.Reluctantly, Jordan discovers she raises all his protective instincts, and suddenly he’s confronted with a different kind of torment – a beautiful brunette with a baby on board!